


light years away

by silentsonata



Series: nice but inaccurate oneshots [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 12:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20891765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: 666 words, one Fall.





	light years away

“Angel,” Crowley pleads, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand as he kneels before him on the cold floor of his apartment, “Angel, look at me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are open, and they are turned towards Crowley. They are more grey than blue now, as if even the colour has been leeched out from them, and they look straight through Crowley as if he he is made of glass, as if he is trying to critique the sketch of the Mona Lisa behind Crowley. Aziraphale’s gaze is fixed on something light years in the distance, perhaps the very edge of the universe, where there are two wing-shaped holes in the fabric of space. Perhaps Aziraphale’s eyes are adhered to a dying star, collapsing in on itself as it illuminates the black void of space with a supernova, funeral fireworks for a celestial body that never had the chance to live. Perhaps his sight has transcended time itself, and he sees the future, delightfully Armageddon-free, with children playing in lush green fields, spotted with little white flowers, untouched by the indelicate, greasy fingers of war.

Crowley knows, deep down, that this is wishful thinking, that he has constructed elaborate towers of euphemisms with silk-thin foundations, and just a breath could send it all toppling down. Just one word was enough to push Aziraphale down from Heaven, into a place far from the limits of Crowley’s reach.

Aziraphale giggles a little, but the warmth of the laugh fails to reach even his cheeks, much less his eyes.

“Oh, Crowley, dear. You’re so sweet.”

“What did I-”

“So considerate. You always have a nice cup of cocoa for me when I need it.” Aziraphale’s fingers limply slip through Crowley’s as he lifts his hand to reach for something. He grasps at thin air just to the right of Crowley’s face and, having failed in his attempt, lets his arm fall, a dead weight on Crowley’s shoulder. Aziraphale lets out a soft sigh as he does so, like he is surrendering a small part of his spirit to the air.

His gaze gradually regains its focus, like a dove that, tossed about in turbulent winds, has only just found a calm current of air to fly through.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and the word is suspended for a moment in the air between them before they fall promptly flat on the floor. Crowley, with all his sharp edges and the points at which they meet, tries so hard to be soft, to comfort, to cushion. “Angel, are you…?”

“It hurts.” Even those two words put an evident strain on Aziraphale’s face, as memories of a dull thud and a loud crack are brought back to his mind. Crowley hushes Aziraphale and shifts to the side slightly to touch his back, to numb the place where the pain is, where there are only jagged stumps of what once were wings.

Aziraphale stiffens as soon as Crowley’s hand is removed from his back. “She’s staring at me,” he whispers, and Crowley does not dare to tear his eyes from Aziraphale, lest he lose him then and there, a twisted reverse of _Orpheus and Eurydice_.

“She’s not staring at you, angel.” Crowley dares not invoke the Almighty’s name.

“No, _she _is.” He tentatively follows Aziraphale’s gaze to the sketch of the Mona Lisa and takes Aziraphale’s trembling hand in his. _They aren’t staring at you, angel. Once you Fall, no-one so much as glances at you like anything more than soil crushed underfoot._

When, at last, Aziraphale’s hands stop shaking, Crowley knows that he has gone to his happy place. A cottage in the South Downs, rose garden out the front, the scent of freshly-brewed honey lemon tea wafting through the house. It is modestly furnished, and there is a large armchair that Aziraphale can sink into ever-so-comfortably.

Crowley stops thinking before how far-fetched the dream is, given their reality, sinks in.

Aziraphale, an angel, no longer an Angel, sits in Crowley’s throne, all his power torn from him.

**Author's Note:**

> this is day 3 of whump-tober: delirium (find [here](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187356400823/october-approaches-and-so-does-whumptober-2019)) :D
> 
> art by my lovely friend, the medusa to my stone statue
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://silent--sonata.tumblr.com/)   
[Chat to me on Discord!](https://discord.gg/pTcajxx)   



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